


Absolution

by near_life_experience



Category: Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Listen sometimes you process your emotions and sometimes your emotions process you, Spoilers for 2x09: Atonement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 14:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/near_life_experience/pseuds/near_life_experience
Summary: “You showed them your hand and your heart, the meaning of the team and its significance in your own paltry existence. You held out your honesty as an offering and your devotion as collateral.“And it still wasn’t enough.”Or,The team breaks up, Dick breaks down, and sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better.
Relationships: Background Dick Grayson/Koriand'r
Comments: 10
Kudos: 234





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> So I know everything in this will mean nothing after the new ep on Friday but I have some FEELINGS about last week's episode. I was going to write this from multiple POVs but in a breathtaking show of impatience I decided to just stick with everyone's favorite unreliable narrator. Also, I'm only as familiar with the Deathstroke/Jericho plot line in the comics as someone can be without ever actually having read a comic in their life, so it goes without saying that some of the finer details that will come up likely aren't anything close to canon-compliant. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Unbeta'd

Dick Grayson is no stranger to the law. For all the red tape, corruption, and his own penchant for taking justice into his own hands, he’s always had a baseline appreciation for the consistency of the legal system and the fact that the procedural element is, fundamentally, always the same. 

When he first took up the mantle of Robin, the interrogation had often preceded the actual arrest, and he’d had little contact with precincts other than dropping bad guys on their doorstep. As Officer Dick Grayson, he’d become more accustomed with the inner workings of the system, and Gotham had given him more experience in a year than most officers obtained in a lifetime. Detective Dick Grayson had achieved yet more familiarity, even if that part of his life had come abruptly crashing down in the face of a demon and his secret underworld.

So it’s familiar, almost comforting, to find himself inside an interrogation room once again, even if he’s never been on the other side of the table.

Dick stares at himself in the one-way mirror. The bruises on his nose and cheek have settled into darkening shades of gray, tender but already fading. The dark circles that have begun to form under his eyes are another story entirely.

He vaguely tries to remember the last time that he slept; finds that he can’t, and instead refocuses his attention back on the blank eyes reflected back at him.

A camera rests in the far corner of the room. The green light shines steadily, a reminder that he’s being observed from somewhere beyond the room. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead only serve to deepen the shadows on his face and add to the headache that’s been steadily forming ever since Dr. Light blew his car up a week ago.

One of the lights flickers, and for an instant he’s transported back to another instance, in a room similar to this one, where he’d been on the other side of the table trying to comfort a terrified girl. _“You’re good with kids,_” they’d said.

He thinks about where that girl had ended up. Betrayed by her mother, heart literally ripped out by her father, and yet it was _Dick _that she had run from. Because he’d let her down, over and over and _over-_

He pushes the memory as far back into his consciousness as it will go and resumes his one-way staring contest.

The police have left him alone for about an hour now. When they’d arrived at the station, he’d demanded his phone call. The men who’d been escorting him in had looked wary but ultimately allowed it.

He doesn’t call a lawyer. Doesn’t call Bruce, or Kory, or even Gar.

Instead, he calls Alfred.

“I know what I’m doing,” he’d said. “Please don’t come after me. Don’t let _him _come after me.”

The butler had sounded older than Dick remembered as he tried to talk him out of it.

Dick had hung his head and gripped the phone a little tighter. “I’m sorry.” And then, because his apologies never seemed to be enough these days, “Please, Alfred.” He’d ended the call before the man had a chance to respond.

An officer with sharp eyes and an unsmiling face had escorted him into the interrogation room, looped his handcuffs through the ring on the table in front of him, and left without another word. He’s been by himself ever since.

Well, almost.

Dick keeps his gaze leveled in front of him, unblinking, but there’s no ignoring that figure that has appeared in his peripheral vision.

Bruce is back.

Or rather, the manifestation of Dick’s inner conscience is back; the real Bruce probably couldn’t stand to be within a hundred miles of him right now, let alone break into this interrogation room and lean casually against the reflective glass.

The familiar numbness that had settled over him in the moments before he’d dropped his bag at the airport-

“I believe that’s what the kids refer to as ‘dissociation’ these days,” Not-Bruce chimes in from the corner.

-is beginning to lift, taking that still sense of calmness with it and leaving behind a fractured amalgamation of nervous energy and an uneasy awareness of the enormity of what he’s just done. 

“That was certainly an entertaining turn of events.”

Dick clenches his jaw but otherwise refuses to acknowledge the comment.

“No, really, the bit where realized that running from your mistakes was a bullshit move? Poetic. Getting yourself arrested by Homeland Security instead? A truly inspired performance. Think Slade Wilson will give you extra points for the melodrama?”

The headache that’s been building behind his temples swells before clamping down in a vise-like grip. Dick resists the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his bruised nose, but it’s a near thing.

Because at the end of the day, this imitation of Bruce isn’t wrong. It had been a public spectacle more than a tactical judgement because Dick has been a performer all his life. Innocently, as a child in the circus; less so, in the bold colors of Robin. It’s how he protects people from the dangers that never seem to stop following him. 

It’s how he protects people from himself. 

Not-Bruce clasps his hands in front of him and pushes himself off the glass. “I’ll give you one thing, kiddo, you’ve always known how to put on a hell of a show,” he says, leaning a hip against the table. Dick ignores him.

“I suppose I’m to blame for that as well,” Not-Bruce says, looking thoughtful. “When you have a secret identity, being a liar is literally in the job description.” He shrugs. “And you never did learn how to keep a healthy work-life balance.”

_“How many other fucking half-truths have you told us?”_

_“At least you got a half-truth.”_

He remembers that first night he and Kory had spent together; her silent pleas for him to just _talk_ to her, to be honest, to be a part of their fledgling team. Remembers the way her face had fallen when he’d brushed her off, because a lie of omission would always feel safer than the vulnerability of being honest.

Bruce leans down into his field of vision, and suddenly the cavalier smirk is gone, replaced by something sad and knowing.

_“You just have to tell the truth,”_ he’d said.

His throat had been tight, his chest heavy, and it had been all he could do to whisper,

_“It’s too hard.”_

Some days- most days- it feels like a battle that he’s destined to always lose. It’s a pattern he figured out a long time ago.

Tell a lie, they leave. Tell the truth, they leave.

But tell a lie, and maybe they live, too. And so he does.

He’s torn from his reverie by the sounds of muffled shouting somewhere outside the interrogation room and he jerks his head up, listening carefully. He becomes aware of the distinct sound of gas hissing before it begins to trickle in under the door, lazily filling the room. He tenses slightly, but whatever it is disperses before it gets close enough to affect him.

The shouts soon begin to diminish in number, tapering into desperate coughs before falling into silence completely. In the corner, the camera’s green light blinks off suddenly. Dick eyes the door carefully, body still and at the ready.

A minute passes, and the feeling of being watched crawls over his skin. He turns his gaze back to the one-way mirror and holds it steadily, controlling his breathing even if there’s nothing he can do about the steadily increasing pounding of his heart.

Another minute passes. Then, the door handle begins to turn. He watches it, and for a moment he has a ridiculous vision of Batman entering the room, lecture on stand-by about the stupidity of getting arrested as a civilian, losing his brother, and just generally proving why he shouldn’t have been given the Titans in the first place.

“And since when am I the one _staging_ the breakouts?” Not-Bruce asks, eyebrow raised in disbelief.

He’s right, of course; the door swings open slowly, deliberately.

And Dick finds himself staring into the unreadable mask of Deathstroke.

The mercenary enters the room with even steps, gaze never wavering from where Dick is temporarily frozen in place. More gas flows into the room behind him. He sighs, sounding almost exasperated, and shakes his head slowly. “You just don’t learn, do you.”

It’s not posed as a question, and Dick doesn’t really have an answer anyway. Instead, fighting past the way his heart is drumming in his ears, he swallows and asks, “Why are you here?”

Deathstroke is silent for a moment, seeming to consider Dick’s question. Or maybe he’s just staring Dick down, waiting for him to come to his own conclusions. It’s impossible to tell.

“You think that this was the admirable choice. A visual spectacle of Dick Grayson relinquishing control to a justice system he once served, as atonement for sins that the rest of the world will never know.”

Dick clenches his fists, then forces them to relax. Distantly, he registers that Slade’s guns are holstered. He hadn’t heard any shots being fired when the gas was released, and he dares to let himself hope that no one else has been killed in this war between them.

“I can’t change the past, or the price that was paid because of my actions,” Dick says slowly. “And I can’t let others continue to pay that price now. No more running from the pain I’ve caused. You said that I hadn’t accepted my guilt; well, here I am, ready to own up to it and whatever sentence it brings.”

Slade stands directly in front of him now, nearly shoulder to shoulder with Bruce, who looks almost pained as his gaze shifts between the two of them. Dick ignores him in favor of watching Slade as he removes his helmet.

Slade looks at the helmet in his hands, seeming to consider something. And there’s something about the look in his eye, some miniscule departure from the calculating mercenary that has beaten him time and time again, that sets Dick further on edge.

After what feels like an eternity, Slade finally lifts his gaze and speaks. “You seek absolution; from the world, from your team, from yourself. Maybe even from me.”

He unsheathes his sword, expression blank and hands steady as he levels the weapon at Dick. And Dick, for all that his heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest and his breaths feel trapped in shuddering lungs, can’t bring himself to look away from the eye that is watching him with measured calmness.

“But the thing with you hero types is that forgiveness requires so much more than an apology. It takes effort, and misery, and the sacrifice of something more precious than the value of life itself.”

Here, Dick drops his eyes, because he knows how this story ends.

“And you gave that to them, didn’t you? Your Titans. You showed them your hand and your heart, the meaning of the team and its significance in your own paltry existence. You held out your honesty as an offering and your devotion as collateral.

“And it still wasn’t enough.”

Dick closes his eyes, takes a slow breath, and forces himself to meet Slade’s eyes again.

In the background, the mirage of Bruce watches him sadly, and somehow his silence makes the words cut that much deeper.

Slade circles the interrogation table in slow, measured steps. Dick forces himself not to tense, focusing on the mirrored image of himself once more.

“All your efforts, and you always end up back here; alone, with the false sense that you’re actually taking responsibility for your actions. But I told you once before-”

Slade comes to a stop at Dick’s side, meeting his eyes in the mirrored glass.

“You’re not a martyr.”

The blade swings. Dick has exactly half a second to wonder at the fact that it’s the handle, not the edge, rapidly descending upon him. Then something hard connects with the side of his head, and the world goes dark.

* * *

He comes to with a splitting headache, a wrenching pain in his arms, and a chill that sinks into his bones. The right side of his face feels tacky, and he distantly recognizes that the collar of his shirt feels stiff where his chin hangs limply, the smell of iron sharp in his nose.

It takes him a few more tries than he’d like to get his eyes open; his brain feels sluggish, his body refusing his own commands, and the dim light that filters through his lashes causes the agony in his head to spike. When he finally manages it, the first thing that he notes is a blurred image of Bruce, leaning down slightly to examine him.

“Concussion,” the image supplies unhelpfully. “Pretty severe one, if that visual tracking is anything to go by.”

Dick lets his eyes fall shut again, exhausted by that minor effort. Instead, he takes stock of his situation using his other senses. His arms are pulled high above his head, secured with rope that’s cutting off circulation to his hands. His toes barely brush the floor beneath him, and the end result is a pull in his shoulders that doesn’t quite rival the pain in his head, but almost comes close. He seems otherwise unharmed, which isn’t entirely surprising but doesn’t bode well for whatever Deathstroke has planned next.

As if summoned by the thought, footsteps echo across the room- basement? warehouse?- and a hand lifts his chin. He forces his eyes open again, and for the seconds that it takes the room to stop spinning, he finds himself staring into the solemn eyes of Jericho. He blinks, and the ghost evaporates, leaving Slade in his wake.

“You thought you could run from your punishment. Lock yourself away and hide from what I’ve taken from you,” he says, and the lack of emotion in his tone belies the steely glint in his eye.

Dick shakes his head, and the world shakes with it.

“No,” he slurs, swallowing against the nausea crawling up his throat. “Tryin’ to… make it right.” Deathstroke has turned away, and suddenly Not-Bruce is right in his face. “Need to make it right,” he mumbles, struggling to make the words sound clear.

Not-Bruce’s face has softened, and his hand reaches out to cup Dick’s cheek. “I know,” he says, and maybe it’s the head injury, but Dick can’t help but let his head sag into the non-existent touch.

“You don’t get to take the easy way out.”

Slade circles in front of him, and Not-Bruce is forced to step out of his way as the laws of reality take hold.

“You know what I think,” Slade says, cold and unforgiving. “I think that somewhere, deep down, you really did believe that going to prison would absolve you of some of your guilt. Or at least, you hoped it would.”

Dick’s tenuous grip on consciousness is slipping.

He fights against it, because it's all he’s ever known.

“But I think that, in the bottom of your soul, you also knew that it wouldn’t be enough. Not for you, anyway. But maybe you thought that it would be enough for someone else; that if even _one _of your friends could see it, they would understand, and they might be able to forgive you.”

Slade stops in front of him. Not-Bruce stands behind his shoulder, and Dick can’t bring himself to meet his knowing gaze.

“What you did… it was unforgiveable. You know it. I know it. And most importantly of all, your team knows it. It’s why they left, and why they won’t be coming back.”

_“You took my family and cast it into the sea forever; so I took away yours.”_

“Whatever actions I might’ve taken, I was just the facilitator. It was your own sins that pushed them away from you. This prison,” he says, gesturing around the room, “is one of your own making, and for that reason it is the one that you will never escape.

Dick sags against the rope holding him, the haze in his mind winning out over the agony in his shoulders.

“No one is coming for you. Your team abandoned you when they saw the truth; and now you will live with that truth until it becomes your end.”

_“I sentence you to live alone, Dick Grayson.”_

The world tilts, and he lets the darkness take him once more.

* * *

When Dick resurfaces, Slade is watching him with a deliberate, considering expression. 

His mind is still fuzzy, vision sliding in and out of focus, but his head is clearer than before and he recognizes that something has changed. Not-Bruce hovers in his periphery but is strangely silent, arms crossed in front of him as he eyes Dick cautiously. Dick’s head lolls slightly as he studies the mercenary, waiting for the inevitable bomb to drop.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Your team is coming.”

For a brief moment, Dick closes his eyes and nearly allows himself to relax at the thought of Kory, at least, maybe even with Gar at her side, storming the metaphorical castle and coming to his rescue. Then fear arcs through his chest and he lurches forward, wrists burning as the rope cuts deeper and eyes going wide.

_“If you ever put the Titans back together, even for a weekend, I will kill every last one of you.”_

The words ring in his head and he shakes it frantically.

“They don’t know- they don’t understand-”

They can’t- they _can’t_-

He forces himself to take a slow, shuddering breath and refocus his thoughts.

“Your fight is with me, not them. They don’t… they don’t understand what it means if they come here together.”

Deathstroke looks at him thoughtfully, seeming to consider something. Something flashes in his eyes, too quick for Dick to process, and his hands twitch.

Dick’s eyes drop to them unconsciously, mind racing with this new problem that he has to fix, he has to _save them- _

Deathtroke’s hands twitch again. Dick stares. The hands move again, and Dick realizes it’s not a twitch, but purposeful movement. Dick stares harder.

And then it all clicks into place.

_“If it’s forgiveness you want, you should try in there. They might feel differently.”_

_“They.”_

The word repeats itself over and over in Dick’s head. He remembers the way Slade had trembled, as though fighting off some sort of internal demon, the way his body had trembled with exertion and rage.

_“They.”_

He’s standing in a record store, feeling hope and wonder for the first time in a long time. _“What did you just do?”_

He’s walking into the Tower, excited for the team, for Joey, for the good that they can do together. _“Look at Jericho.”_

He’s lying on his back in a church, vision darkening and blood dripping from his lips as someone falls to their knees in front of him, sword through his chest, and he’s just a kid, _he’s just a kid-_

He’s coming to, alone and surrounded by broken alters and broken promises, staring at a pool of blood in front of him, unsure of why he’s still alive because he just _killed Deathstroke’s son_\- and-

_“They.”_

His mind is spinning and his eyes blink wide as they dart up to stare at the mercenary in front of him.

“Jericho?”

It comes out as barely a whisper. There’s a deafening silence, and for a moment Dick thinks that he’s wrong, that maybe he’s just finally lost his mind.

Then Deathstroke’s eye narrows. Behind him, Not-Bruce’s eyebrows raise. “Huh,” he says. He nods, almost looking impressed. “`Then you will know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.’”

Dick blinks, and Bruce is gone.

He blinks again, and a fist is flying towards his face.

The world goes dark.

* * *

Not-Bruce is absent the next time he awakens. 

His bottom lip feels swollen, blood oozing lazily from the fresh split. His head is clearer this time around, thoughts less muddled and vision only blurring a little around the edges.

Slade- or is it Jericho? Has it always been Jericho?- stands in front of him, mask back in place. He slowly reaches up and pulls his sword from where it’s sheathed on his back, blade flashing in the dim fluorescent lighting.

Dick regards him, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. “It’s over; you won,” he says tiredly, echoing their conversation in Adeline’s living room. His friends might be closing in, and he needs this to be over before they get here. He breathes in slowly, fighting to maintain some last vestige of control. “Let’s end this.”

He’s met with silence. It’s impossible to read Deathstroke behind the mask, and all Dick can do is stare.

The mercenary shifts slightly. The sword arcs, Dick tenses-

-and the rope suspending Dick’s arms snaps. He staggers, bound hands shooting out clumsily and finding nothing to steady himself. A hand lands on his shoulder, grip unforgiving, and he finds himself looking into resolute steel. 

“There are only two ways that this can end for you,” Deathstroke says. The sword is hanging loosely at one side. His hand lowers from Dick’s shoulder and pulls something out of one of the compartments in his suit, gaze never wavering from Dick’s.

There’s an imperceptible shift in the room. Neither man moves. Dick hardly dares to breathe. Deathstroke cocks his head to the side, as if waiting for something, then nods slightly.

“Choose wisely,” he says simply, and Dick has the fleeting impression that he’s no longer speaking to him before the blade is plunged into his stomach.

Dick’s breath leaves him in a choked gasp. He vaguely registers a screamed, _“No!”_ but doesn’t have time to wonder where it came from. Between one second and the next, Slade pulls the blade out with one hand and throws what he has in the other. _Concussion grenade_, Dick’s mind supplies.

His knees don’t even have the chance to collapse before the explosion sends him tumbling backward, ears ringing and vision swimming as he makes painful contact with the cold ground.

The world fades. When he comes back to himself, the world has upended itself in a disorienting collision of sound that his brain can’t seem to process.

“-always ten fucking steps ahead of us- god_damnit-_”

“-almost here- Rachel’s with her-”

“Rose, _wait_-”

There are warm hands on his face, and he unconsciously leans into the touch.

“Dick- shit, okay, Dick, please open your eyes.”  
  
He doesn’t remember closing them, but the voice is familiar and insistent, and he doesn’t know how to refuse.

His eyes flutter, and the darkness is cut by shades of red and green. He blinks into Kory’s worried face, unsure if he can believe what his mind is telling him. Her lips are moving again, but the words don’t reach him, as though they’re being filtered out into white noise. He swallows and opens his mouth, because he needs to tell her… needs to tell them-

There’s blinding pain in his stomach, and whatever he wanted to say is lost as his vision whites out.

“Gar, hold pressure,” he hears distantly, and the pain holds steadily. He feels like he can’t breathe, and when his vision clears, Kory’s worried eyes are looking down into his and one of her hands has moved to cup the back of his neck.

“We’re here, Dick. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get you out of here, but you just need to hold on-”

The world is starting to fade in and out again. Kory’s hands grip him tighter, and he can’t tell if the trembling is from her body or his own. His chest feels tight, lungs refusing to take in air, but her figure is starting to blur, and they have to _know_-

A tear rolls down his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.

It’s barely a whisper, but he doesn’t have the chance to worry if she heard him. His eyes slip shut as the rest of his energy leaves him. He hears people calling his name, desperate and pleading and fading.

And then the world is silent. 

* * *

He feels… light. 

The pain that had been coursing through his body is still there, but it’s dulled in a way that only drugs could achieve. His head feels heavy against the pillow, and the blanket covering him is soft and warm. There’s a small hand in his, rubbing gentle circles into his palm.

It’s hard to open his eyes, and he thinks that it would probably be okay if he didn’t for a while. His mind is fuzzy, but not in the way that it had been before when he… when…

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, trying to piece together the images flashing in his mind. The hand suddenly stills and pulls away, and his agitation kicks up another notch.

“Dick?”

Dawn? His brain isn’t sure what to do with that. Dawn was there, but then she wasn’t, and Slade made sure that he knew-

His mind short circuits and his eyes fly open.

He’s in the med bay in Titans Tower. Next to him, a machine shrieks as his heart begins to pound in his chest.

_“If you ever put the Titans back together, even for a weekend, I will kill every last one of you.”_

“No,” he rasps, and suddenly he’s surging in the bed. The pain in his stomach roars back to life and someone- Hank?- curses to his left. Strong arms are suddenly holding him down, and he can’t _breathe-_

“Can’t be here,” he gasps, eyes swinging around wildly. “He’ll come back, we can’t-”

He cuts off with a choked wheeze, breaths coming in quick, panicked gasps.

“Shit, Dick, it’s okay- _fuck, _Donna, help me hold him down- kid, go get Kory, we need- Dick, _breathe-_”

His brain can’t process the words around him but it doesn’t matter, he needs to get them out, they can’t be here, can’t be together, Slade will kill them all and it will be _all his fault-_

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, because it’s all he can do.

“Dick,” someone says from above him, sounding pained.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, vision blurring. He feels something cool in his arm, and suddenly his eyes feel heavy again and everything but the panic begins to fade. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry-”

* * *

The next time he awakens, the world is quiet and Dick is alone.

Well. Almost.

Bruce is sitting in a chair next to his bed, thumbing through a forgotten copy of some Dickens novel. He looks up when he feels Dick’s eyes on him and offers a small smile. “There he is,” he says, and the warmth in his tone leaves a lump in Dick’s throat. “How are you feeling?”

Dick stares at him for a minute, then closes his eyes with a sigh. “You’re here,” he murmurs, ignoring the question.

They’re both quiet, and then Dick feels Bruce reach out and gently brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. Dick’s eyes burn a little at the gesture, because he knows it’s not real, and it _hurts_. “Of course,” Bruce says simply.

The door swings open, and Jason walks into the room, phone in hand. “Hey, Bruce, Alfred wants to know-”

Dick jerks and his eyes snap back open. Jason cuts himself off in the doorway, blinking as he seems to realize that he’s interrupted something. “Oh, hey, Dick, you’re up. That’s great, dude. I’ll… let the others know and give you two a minute.” He looks uncertainly at Bruce, who nods, unfazed as ever. With a half-hearted salute, he backs out of the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Bruce watches the door for a few seconds before turning his attention back to Dick. For his part, all Dick can do is stare.

“Alfred wanted to be here,” Bruce says casually, as though his eldest son isn’t looking at him like he’s seen a ghost. “You really worried him with that phone call. Honestly, if your team hadn’t found you when they did, I think he would’ve gone in and taken out Deathstroke himself,” Bruce laughs softly.

Dick takes a shuddering breath, and Bruce suddenly looks uncertain. “Dick?”

And what else can he say?

“I fucked up, Bruce,” he says. Tears blur his vision and he brings a hand up to cover his eyes, unable to meet Bruce’s gaze. “You trusted me with the team, with Jason, and I fucked it all up. I’m sorry,” he says, hating himself for the way his voice breaks. His shoulders shake, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from sliding into a breakdown.

Bruce shifts beside him, laying a steady hand on his shoulder. “Dick,” he says, voice low and gentle. “You took… an impossible situation. Something that none of us could have seen coming, not even me. And you did the best you could.”

Dick trembles harder and he shakes his head. “No, I-”

“You took,” Bruce continues, “a team of lost people and gave them a sense of purpose. Now, I’m not going to say you did it perfectly; but we all make mistakes when we’re learning how to guide others.” He pats Dick’s shoulder in a way that should feel awkward, but it’s just so _Bruce _that Dick can’t help but relax. “I certainly did,” Bruce says, and Dick dares to lower his hand from his eyes. Bruce smiles down at him. “But I think it worked out pretty well.”

“And for what it’s worth,” Bruce says, “Whatever mistakes you made, your team stood by you in the end. The Titans are here to stay, and that is _because_ of your leadership, not in spite of it. Forgiving yourself is one of the hardest things you can do.” He levels Dick with a meaningful look. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Dick inhales deeply. Exhales.

Then he nods.

They sit there in silence for a while longer. Eventually, and to his great frustration, Dick feels the pull of sleep and his eyes begin to droop.

“Rest, Dick,” Bruce says quietly, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.

And for the first time in days, Dick does.

* * *

Things settle back into something resembling normalcy in the Tower. 

Bruce returns to Gotham, summoned to contain a breakout from Arkham. He gives Dick and Jason an apologetic smile and a steadying clap on the shoulder, and then the Bat is off.

The rest of them stay.

Dick doesn’t know what happened in the time between his arrest and his rescue, and he isn’t quite sure how to ask. But for the first time in weeks, everyone seems like they can breathe easily around each other, and for now, that’s enough.

He’s sitting in his room with Kory, absently massaging his side where he’d been stabbed. Rachel had healed him when she’d arrived, but apparently it had been a near thing, and the area is still sore.

Kory has a hand propping up her chin, watching him. He smiles at her. “So,” he says. “Which problem do you want to fix first?”

She laughs at that, a bright sound that warms him. Then she sobers and sighs, shaking her head.

Conner is still missing. Deathstroke- and Jericho- are in the wind. And though she doesn’t say anything, Dick can see that something else is weighing on Kory.

One problem at a time, though.

“Something has to change,” Dick says. Kory looks at him curiously but doesn’t say anything.

“I keep trying to go about this like I would have as Robin, but who I was before- that’s not who we need anymore. It’s not who I _am_ anymore.”

He sits up. “I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes. What we’re building here- it has the potential to be so much more. Not just stopping Deathstroke, but actually doing real good in the world.” She smiles softly and nods, encouraging him to continue.

“I know we had a rocky start, and a lot of that is on me,” he continues. Kory doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to; they’ve had this part of the conversation before. “But whatever we’ve said and done in the past, it’s where we go from here that matters. Whatever the future holds, we’ll make sure that we’re ready for it.”

Their eyes meet, and Dick sees his own resolve reflected in hers.

“Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cue Nightwing, am I right.
> 
> Sorry I suuuuuck at endings but, you know. It's the journey, not the destination, and all that jazz. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
